


Everything to anything

by anonymousorly



Series: The Forgiveness Tour starring Zayn Malik [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angry Sex, Bottom Zayn, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Choking, Forgiveness, Hotel Sex, M/M, Makeup Sex, Making Up, One Direction Hiatus, Painplay, Post-Zayn One Direction, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Body Play, Smoking weed sex, Smut, Top Harry, harry fucks zayn, somewhat technically Asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: Harry takes out his anger on Zayn. Zayn wants whatever Harry needs. Zayn’s cousin has the best weed.[Prompt: “I could beat the shit out of you.” “I know.”]
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Series: The Forgiveness Tour starring Zayn Malik [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790623
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	Everything to anything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1degenerates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1degenerates/gifts).



Harry’s hotel room is obnoxious. He’s always been a bit over the top but it seems his budget allows him to be these days. Zayn holds back his initial remarks – about the multi-ethnic buffet, the two large screens playing football and some black-and-white silent film, the Hindi music he recognizes from a Bollywood film trailer – and decides on, “Why do you have three different types of water?” a tame acknowledgement to the excessive setup because, truly, it’s obnoxious.

“Sparkling, still, vitamin,” he monotonously recites before getting straight to the point, “You’ve talked to Niall, then.” Zayn remains standing by the door awkwardly. “Lucky him, to be graced by your presence.”

Straight to the point, indeed, so Zayn pulls a small folded baggie from the back pocket of his tight denim jeans because he can’t deal with Harry when he has a long, thorny stick up his ass, when he’s dead set on being an irrational brat. He loves Harry but he’s damn near intolerable when he’s bratty.

Harry lifts an eyebrow. Zayn always has the best weed, shit his cousin gets that Louis’ will never compare to, and really, Harry could use a few moments to mute his brain from all this sudden and overwhelming emotion.

Might as well make use of Zayn while he’s here.

Baited, they both think, and neither’s integrity is above their involvement in aforementioned baiting.

They sit back to back on the balcony, each with a lighter and passing the bong between them. They feel the gradual relaxation of the other, heavy shoulders and slouching spines. Harry only needs two hits before he’s content, goddamn Zayn’s cousin sells magic, and allows himself to just bask in it. The back of their arms, elbows touching, feel like a stove burner, slow heat making its way to the surface, making itself known.

Mind reeling all morning and only spinning faster now that he has Harry next to him, Zayn nervously fidgets the lighter’s smooth plastic. “Do… The first time you crawled in my bunk, I think about that a lot.” His face warms, knows Harry’s is too. “How we made out damn near soundlessly. Your straddling of my leg, your desperation, it was the first time I saw you lose yourself.”

The night after their first kiss, on the bus with the others the day prior, Harry shimmied beside Zayn in his bunk and became acutely aware of how loud everything is in silence: movements, thoughts, breathing in air, breathing out words. Lips sealed a haven for their tongues, not a kiss but a chamber for Harry to release and for Zayn to catch, Harry’s hips slow and heavy against Zayn’s thigh, knees clenching knee, ankles locking ankle. Zayn was more than pleased (and quite aroused) to let Harry use him, to embrace his radiating body against his, “Anything, Harry,” barely escaped from his mouth, a brief unsealing of soft open lips, yet Harry so clearly heard.

He took Zayn’s hand, fingers one by one bending across his palm, hips slow and heavy, lips sealed, and brought it flat beneath his chin. Zayn didn’t immediately recognize what was being asked of him, Harry’s gentle fingers caressing his with purpose, dragging them lightly over his neck, hips slow and heavy, lips sealed, Zayn’s fingertips pressed under his right ear and thumb pressed under his left.

Oh.

“It was easily the sexist, most erotic…experience I had up to that point,” he continues, then takes another hit because fuck, now he’s hot and bothered. Harry is motionless behind him, he wonders if he’ll hear snores soon. “You trusted me, wanted me, gave yourself to me, it was everything and _you_ were everything, this-this beauty, majesty.” He closes his eyes, bottom lip trembling. “You all were. Then you all became my nightmare.”

A slow, sharp inhale confirms Harry isn’t asleep but very much present and listening. Zayn waits, gives Harry the conch so to speak, but nothing. Time is skewed for him right now but he thinks he waits long enough to realize the cue Harry’s giving.

“I had four hearts but,” he chuckles eerily, “I was losing my fucking mind,” he bitterly shifts, “like pedals plucked from a flower until it’s just a stem. A fucking,” ugly, useless, limp, drab, lifeless, colorless, “…stem.”

He waits again.

And waits.

And.waits. 

And. Waits.

Goddamn it, Styles.

He rolls his eyes. “Look, I can come around when you’re more ready, it’s not a big deal–”

“I’m ready, you’re fine.” They glance at each other, Zayn over his right shoulder and Harry over his left, heads close but gazes drawn down. “Your cousin is too good.”

“I know.”

They face forward again, lingering probably a bit too long on their small normal exchange but they have Zayn’s cousin to thank for that.

He doesn’t want to force Harry into talking but Christ, how can he know what to say, how to fix them, how to move them forward, if Harry doesn’t tell him?

The words appear like a movie title on a theatre’s light board. Mission: get a sentence out of Harry.

“I like how you, well, likened me to Ringo.” Nothing. “Alive, I mean. Better than, you know.” Approach apparently ineffective, he shamelessly, “You act like I don’t exist. Even now, as we touch and I can feel you breathing, I’m a void or-or memory you refuse to believe ever happened.”

“That’s what you wanted,” he’s flat, unwavering, “is it not?”

“You gave zero fucks about me, let alone what I wanted– hell, if that _was_ what I wanted, you’d have done the opposite.” Harry lets out a laugh and nothing more. Zayn takes another, longer hit and hands it to Harry. After he hears the glass of the bong scraping the balcony and a full exhale, he leans forward and, “Stand up.”

He helps Harry to his feet, more or less to keep his balance away from knocking over the bong, and is wonderfully elated when Harry doesn’t let go; he’s too high to feel his smile curling. He takes them inside to the bed and Harry scoffs, “Do you seriously think–”

“Nononono,” Zayn hushes him, kneeling on the bed and tugging on his hands, “no, just,” and Harry obliges, kneeling until Zayn lies them down, side by side on their backs.

They stare at the ceiling for a while, swimming in their engulfed high, and Harry momentarily forgets Zayn’s there until he covers his hand, fingers slipping between his palm and the bed, lifting it up – “Up in the air,” he thoughtlessly says – to his chest, his steady heartbeat. Harry’s head rolls to face Zayn, who’s already looking at him, and he’s beautiful as ever, though a different kind of beautiful to the one he had known, loved. Then, Zayn drags Harry’s hand into the frame, lazy and loose, to his collar and…

And oh. Oh boy.

That night in the bunk, after his orgasm, messy and somewhat contained in his sweatpants, Harry turned his attention to Zayn’s erection. Zayn wanted, God _fuck_ did he, and for Harry to, but his headspace was locked solely on Harry’s needs: Harry found relief, now he needed sleep. Harry felt rejected, a glorious comet colliding into a block of ice, then Zayn – Harry now needed confidence – kissed him properly and audibly, gentle wet smacks and low vibrating moans, hair strokes and face cradles. It definitely didn’t help relax his cock but that definitely didn’t matter: Harry mattered, he was everything right now, everything to Zayn.

It was a selflessness, a care, that Harry had never witnessed. It was then that Harry began falling in love. That night, that entire shared experience, was special to them, for them, between them – it was everything.

How much has changed from then, yet here they are.

Harry turns on his side, incidentally closer and pressing against Zayn, knuckles under Zayn’s chin like an upper-cut pose and their breaths of burned grass warm on their noses.

“I could beat the shit out of you.”

“I know.”

Zayn pulls off his shirt when Harry tugs on the bottom. Stares unblinking and intense, Harry curls his hand around Zayn’s neck, fingers tight in a straight line and thumb flat like a salute, faintly feels his pulse under his silver necklace, and his cock twitches. His eyes dart to Zayn’s dark pink tongue peeking out from dark pink lips, full and tempting. Eyebrows creasing, his thumb extends up to his bottom lip and Zayn’s dark pink tongue peeks out for it, beckons for it, unblinking and intense, Harry’s breathing quickens.

Thumb sliding further across and under Zayn’s jaw, pupils blown wide, he carefully adjusts to search for the side of his wind pipe, gentle brushes and fast presses, testing the water here and there. Unblinking and intense, consumed with Zayn’s face, any flinch and any indication, hypnotic gold eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, gentle and fast exploration–

Zayn gags, a half cough, quiet and subtle. Harry’s flexed fingers re-salute, watches Zayn stretch his neck backward. He doesn’t get off on the actual choking, not erotic asphyxiation or exactly breath control play, but the pulse from a heartbeat so alive right near an oxygen supply so vulnerable, so easily obstructive. Like the kicking reflex after the doctor knocks on a knee. The reflex of such struggle breathing from such a small act of pressing. He gets off on that reflex, that struggle, and the knowledge of absolute control over someone’s life.

He feels Zayn swallow, lump smoothly going down, and he wonders if he’s gone cross-eyed, how ridiculous he must look if he is, if it’s turn on or off for Zayn or irrelevant, how relevant is it if he’s cross-eyed, why is he fucking thinking about this– okay, he knows why, but…

Zayn’s fixated on Harry’s neck, clenched jaw defining the contours of his lower cheeks, his chin, skin strained the top of his throat. He’s calm, they’ve done this before, wants whatever Harry will give him, whatever Harry needs. “Anything, Harry.”

His hand slides away from Zayn’s wind pipe, fits comfortably snug around his throat, relaxed and easy. He inhales deeply through his nose.

He fucks Zayn hard, makes it hurt in any possible way: yanks his hair and shakes vigorously from side to side, making him dizzy and cry out from his throbbing scalp; bites his shoulders and leaving trails of bleeding indents; scratches his back, chest, thighs with steady moderate pressure as though relieving an itch, then digging into the skin’s rugged lines deeper yet steady still, a torture of irritation and punctured pain; spanks each ass cheek until red blotches turn purple, loud pleas distant compared to his fulfilling slaps; even chaws his cock because he doesn’t fucking care, from the tip to clampclampclamp the base, and the noise from Zayn, a shrill wail that forces Harry to cover his mouth, just makes him harder.

Sobbing and surrendered, Zayn gasps at dull pains, squeals at piercing pains, whines at burning pains, and screams when it hurts especially good. His sense of touch is on overdrive, magnified, that sounds and sights hardly exist. Harry’s thrusting into him, firm hold on his bruising throat pinning him down with enough weight to restrict airflow, to cause Zayn’s tongue to hang out as though it’ll help him get more air, fluttering lashes hiding rolled back eyes. He makes higher-pitched moans, short like gasps and deep like inhales, mumbles almost sounding like words, Harry could play it on repeat until he dies.

He starts to come untouched, because Harry’s an asshole, when Harry strokes him through it, the sudden feeling after neglect taking him by surprise but warping into an orgasm he couldn’t have ever fucking imagined in his wildest dreams. He’s a blubbering, writhing mess, nonsensical and a bit manic, then Harry chokes him again until he’s unloading inside Zayn, who instantly calms down once Harry’s hips finally stop.

He’s crying for no single reason: a combination of the physical tarnish, the best weed sex, the best weed orgasm, a top-five fucking from Harry, Harry who is everything again right now and limbs wrapped around him like a blanket, coos soothing his mind and mouth grazing his neck.

“You’re everything, Zayn,” he whispers, “that’s never changed.”

**Author's Note:**

> ###  **thank you for reading! kudo, bookmark, comment, and subscribe :)**


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